


A Villanelle for Alex Manes's Ass

by Mosca



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Bisexuality, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Malex Week 2020, Minor Maria DeLuca/Michael Guerin, Pining, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:47:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25314820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mosca/pseuds/Mosca
Summary: Alex's ass is like poetry, and Michael wants it back.
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 39
Kudos: 97
Collections: Malex Week 2020





	A Villanelle for Alex Manes's Ass

**Author's Note:**

> What better way to celebrate Malex Week 2020 than with my first fic in the fandom? On Smut Day, no less.
> 
> This is set at the end of Season 1 (and grew out of my feelings watching s1 for the first time), but alludes to events from season two, including several canonical character deaths.
> 
> This street legal villanelle contains references to childhood trauma, a little Maria/Michael, and a whole lot of butt stuff.
> 
> Illmatchtheminrenown deserves all of the blame for getting me into this show and all of the credit for beta reading this story.

Michael misses Alex’s ass. He misses all of Alex, head to toe, in fact. Alex’s pixie face, with its ageless features that make him look more alien than Michael ever could. The battle-chiseled muscle of his chest and abs, which Alex hides under his clothes like the price of perfection is too high to flaunt. The smooth, scarred place where his leg ends, which Michael knows better than to touch. His thick cock, hard at the brush of Michael’s hand or the whisper of a kiss, more so now that they’re past random teenage excitement. Of course, Michael misses Alex’s mind, too. His brain is as much his body as anything else, his sharpness that cuts through the desert torpor that everyone else in Roswell seems to wilt under, his insistence on kindness despite how often life has heaped cruelty on him. On both of them. Traumatic childhoods are a dime a dozen, but no one has an ass like Alex’s. When Michael thinks about Alex’s ass, he opens up the draft text he can never send. “How about I come over and eat your ass, and maybe we can work shit out?”

Michael is trying to make something work with Maria instead. He can feel himself improving when he’s around her. He wants to be the person she escapes toward, not the person she runs from. He wishes he could rebuild his heart like an engine so he could fall in love with her. But feelings aren’t machines; they’re like the weather. He can pretend he’s fine sleeping outside, but his body will still shiver in the midnight chill. He can stand in the breeze of an industrial-strength air conditioner in a New Mexico Walmart, but it’ll still be 110 degrees when he wheels his shopping cart outside. Even if he grows to love Maria, it will be the kind of love he can walk away from. Even if he hadn’t had to literally walk away from Alex halfway through fucking him, they would feel unfinished. Maybe the right kind of love always feels unfinished; maybe that’s how you know. Alex’s love is a flame, and Michael is the moth who misses Alex’s ass.

Michael used to make believe he had a mother. He cobbled her personality together from the moms on TV, then held onto the fantasy until he was way too old for it. He might still be holding onto it now, that sitcom childhood of pancakes and miniature golf, his A+ math tests decorating the fridge door. He used to be angry at Max and Isobel for fitting in so much better than he did, for passing so well that they seemed almost human. But even if he’d had parents instead of getting passed around like a white elephant gift until he aged out of the system, he’d have the mark of difference on him. When he glimpsed his mother in that prison, he sensed he came from a line of misfits, too smart and strange for their own good. He’ll never know if it’s true, so believing it comforts him, the same way it comforts him to believe that desiring the beauty in everyone is one of his alien superpowers, and not earthbound, luck-of-the-draw bisexuality. Alex would kill to understand the attraction behind a pair of tits, will never understand why Michael chooses loving him over the veneer of normality. But you can’t fix someone’s sexual orientation with a “How about I come over and eat your ass, and maybe we can work shit out?”

There are lots of people who Michael would rather miss. He drinks a toast to Max every night, sometimes a whole bottle of toasts, but he can’t shake the conviction that his brother is too stubborn to stay dead. He has a mother he could mourn, but he doesn’t know where to start for a woman he never knew, who suffered for seventy years in conditions that make his life look like a string of mild inconveniences. When he’s drunk enough, Michael can muse about the person he might have become without those inconveniences. He could have gone to UNM, could have gotten an agricultural research job or sold his soul to Monsanto for the cash, could have had the house and the car and the husband. And the crushing secret of coming from a galaxy far, far away. He doesn’t mourn that guy at all. Instead, he jerks off in the starlight to the memory of Alex’s ass.

There is no selfish way to eat an ass. Every other sex act that Michael has tried is suffused with self-interest, but if there’s a cruel way to rim someone, he hasn’t found it. Not that he’s tried with anyone other than Alex. Analingus isn’t something you trot out for the first fuck, and Michael doesn’t often show up for encores. But Alex wanted it, commanded it. He needs Michael’s tongue in his ass more than he needs Michael’s cock, needs the tease more than the orgasm. Michael needs his part in the game, too, needs the sour and alkaline of delicate skin he knows Alex spent the afternoon getting clean for him, needs Alex squirming and pleading under him as he practices his repertoire of licks and slurps. When Michael is fucking Alex or sucking his cock, Michael’s mind sometimes wanders to the conversations they need to have that he doesn’t want. When he’s tonguing Alex’s hole, he believes if he keeps coming over and eating that ass, they can work shit out.

Michael and Alex are no good for each other. Together, they are the worst ghosts of their teenage selves, gone mad rattling their chains for a decade in between. They can’t care for themselves, let alone another damaged soul. But as many times as Michael repeats that, to himself and to Alex’s face, he keeps returning to the fact that he misses Alex’s ass. Stone-cold sober at eleven in the morning, Michael sends the text from his drafts: “How about I come over and eat your ass, and maybe we can work shit out?”


End file.
